


City of Corpses

by bibliolatry



Series: Demon!John [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Assault, BAMF John, Corporal Punishment, Dunking, First Hints of Attraction - John, Gen, John Goes Ballistic, John's Demon Powers Are Slowly Being Revealed, Of Course Sherlock Solves It, Protective John, Sherlock Gets Kidnapped, Sixty Year Old Case, Sjambok Flagellation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:18:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatry/pseuds/bibliolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While excavating in preparation of laying the foundation for his new home, Jamie Bradley discovers several corpses. This incident sparks the interest of Sherlock Holmes, but it's not until two other properties report findings of corpses that Sherlock and John leave the comfort of London for the small town of Craydon*.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Craydon is a random city/town that I've made up. If there really is such a location in England, I apologize for screwing with it's layout and people. I am American; therefore, I know nothing of England (though I do hope to visit there some day).
> 
> **Not Brit-picked and unedited!

“ _The three corpses were found on Wednesday during the excavation of Mr. Bradley’s newest property acquisition. The corpses have been identified as male and range in age from fourteen to seventeen. Nothing further has been said at this time._ ”

John shut off the television and turned to Sherlock. He watched Sherlock’s lips move silently for a few moments before clearing his throat. When that got no response, he cleared his throat again… an again… and again, until he finally got a response; though, in all honesty, it wasn’t really the response he was looking for.

“For Heaven’s sake, John, what is it?” Sherlock sat up, flinging his arms out to the side in a dramatic manner. 

John rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “I know you heard the news, Sherlock. Don’t tell me it’s not interesting enough for you.”

“Three dead bodies…”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock waved a hand in front of himself, cutting John off. “Boring.”

John raised a brow, but said nothing. If Sherlock wasn’t interested in finding out how those three boys died, who was he to argue in their favor. Aside from the fact that he was getting just as bored as Sherlock claimed to be (and just as annoyed with Sherlock’s constant whining as he was bored), there really wasn’t much motivation to do much of anything.

**✘✘✘**

The second reported finding revealed two male bodies; one sixteen, one thirteen. The third brought the total corpses found to ten, all males between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. Sherlock and John left for Crayden that afternoon.

**✘✘✘**

"Who the bloody hell are you?" PC Bill Dorsey asked as Sherlock and John stopped in front of the police tape.

Sherlock stared at him a moment before turning to John. John rolled his eyes and turned his attention to the PC, the question leaving his lips before he'd fully turned away from Sherlock. "May we speak to the person in charge?"

"Are you Sherlock Holmes, then?" a woman walked up to the tape. John stared at her for a moment before pointing to Sherlock. "Right, Lestrade said you'd be stopping by."

Sherlock turned to glare at John. "You told Lestrade?"

John raised his hands in a placating manner. "I did no such thing. You're the one always telling me Mycroft bugs the flat. What's to make you think it wasn't him?"

Sherlock raised a brow, but didn't argue the point. He turned back to the woman. "Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague, Doctor John Watson. Show me to the bodies."

"This way," the woman held the police tape up, allowing Sherlock and John to cross. "I'm Inspector Lassiter, this is my scene. Lestrade tells me you're the best and we need the best, Mr. Holmes. We've finally gotten back identification for the first five bodies that were found. We'll see about these five once we've moved them from the scene, but Lestrade says you work best with an undisturbed scene so I haven't let anyone touch a thing yet."

Sherlock raised a brow. He opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off. "Yes, thank you. We'll have a look see and go from there."

"Very well."


	2. Chapter 2

"Remington Alcock, do you know why you have been summoned here today?"

"Yes, Headmaster," the boy replied, his head bowed far enough that his chin rested against his chest.

"Then you understand that you must be punished?"

"Yes, Headmaster."

"Very well, then. Ten lashings for cursing and taking our good Lord's name in vain."

"Yes, Headmaster."

The boy was lead to the next room and stripped of his shirt. Mr. Helmsgrove, the Mathematics instructor and most experienced in administering such punishment, proceeded to whip the boy. The sjambok used was well-worn leather, the sting worthy of many boys tears. As it were, young Alcock's reactions were not what the headmaster was looking for. At fifteen, Alcock had experimented in sexual thrills, much like any boy his age. This, he had discovered early on, was rather exciting for him. He enjoyed pain far more than most. The resulting erection confounded and disgusted the adults in the room.

"An improper reaction, indeed," the headmaster said as young Alcock pulls his shirt back over his head. "What do you suppose, Mr. Helmsgrove, would be a proper punishment for such a reaction?"

"I do believe, Headmaster, that water curing has been used in similar cases."

The two men looked at each other for a moment before, in silent agreement, they both nodded. Two large beams were acquired and a chair fastened between them. The contraption was laid out along the dock of the lake that sat at the far end of the property. Young Alcock was attached to the chair and the two men, with another three brought on to supervise the punishment, proceeded to dunk the boy. He was supposed to be dunked seven times for his 'sin'; however, after the fourth, Mr. Helmsgrove noted the boys head remained motionless, leaning against his left shoulder. His body did not heave nor gasp for breath. The men agreed he would be buried and reported as having run away.

Remington Alcock was the first unmarked grave to appear on the school grounds, but certainly not the last.

**✘✘✘**

_The town of Craydon holds a population of nine hundred and seventy-three. From Branch Avenue to Emerald Heights (approximately seven streets including the two) consists mainly of single family dwellings. It is in this location that Robert C. Walters School for Boys had presided for nigh on twenty-seven years before the man passed away and the school was closed and then demolished, making way for the expansion of the small village that housed the schools instructors._

John stared down at the book on his lap, blinking the blurriness from his eyes. He'd been studying up on the history of Craydon for three hours at this point and, quite frankly, it was exhausting. It wasn't like he couldn't get this information in a more expedient manner. In fact, he could have the case solved in a matter of minutes. Sherlock, however, preferred this approach and, seeing as he cannot go against Sherlock's wishes, John is stuck refraining from using his powers and having to trudge through these dull moments in a most _human_ manner. He looked up across the room to where Sherlock had wedged his long, slender form into a most uncomfortable looking position; his eyes closed lightly and his hands pressed together under his chin. His lips moved without releasing sound and his shoulders barely lifted in a tell-tale sign of his breathing. John admired Sherlock for a moment, his pale skin and raven hair. _He's truly a handsome man_ , he thought before giving his head a quick shake and returning to his reading.

"John," it seemed as though it had been hours since his last break when Sherlock finally spoke. "What's this?" a hand flashed into his space, long, slender finger pointing to a picture of the school.

The image was black and white showing a large portion of the boys in attendance at the time. Several were looking at the photographer while others appeared to be partaking in some old game. The building itself was undeniably beautiful in it's crafting. Three stories tall and nearly double that in it's length, it easily could have house a minimum of one hundred and fifty boys at any one point in time, though from the reading John knew it never held more than sixty-three at it's highest attendance. According to the caption, this particular image was taken in the spring of the year old Mr. Walters passed away. Those boys wouldn't have returned after summer break.

"That, Sherlock," John replied, "is a picture of the school that used to take up a large portion of this town. It was closed and demolished close to fifty-seven years ago after the founder and headmaster, Robert Walters, passed away. It wasn't a very popular school, what with all the runaways, but it maintained a high enough attendance that it was able to remain open regardless."

"Runaway?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yes. If I remember correctly, there were fifty-five boys that disappeared from it's halls in the twenty-seven years it was open."

"Fifty-five boys in twenty-seven years? You don't find that a bit disconcerting?"

"I'm a demon, Sherlock. I have yet to come across anything that I'd find disconcerting."


	3. Chapter 3

Three weeks into the investigation had revealed forty-three bodies in all. Of the forty-three, thirty-nine had been identified and what next of kin could be found had been notified. Craydon had more visitors in those three weeks than the town had received since the school was open.

John let out a heavy sigh as his eyes trailed up and down the road. He’d picked a good seat at the small café. It afforded him a perfect view of the entire main road and even a good ways down a couple of the side streets. He wasn’t look for anything particular, but being able to maintain an all clear, especially when Sherlock was so completely lost in his mind palace, was an invaluable asset.

John picked up his tea cup and sipped the steaming liquid, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. Sherlock sat across from him ignoring his own cup completely. His fingers were in their typical steeple pose resting against his bottom lip and his eyes were shut, the eyeballs roaming underneath the lids. He’d mumble something every so often, but it was unintelligible and John found he could really care less. He far more enjoyed the freedom of taking in every detail of Sherlock’s perfectly proportioned face: his high cheekbones, the perfect cupid’s bow shape of his lips, the length of his lashes. He was gorgeous. Not in a conventional sense, of course, but there was no doubt that this man was a vision to behold.

“You’re staring,” the words were barely audible, but John heard them all the same.

“And?” he replied and Sherlock cracked one eye open.

“It’s distracting.”

“How so?”

Sherlock stared at him through the slit in that one eye for a moment before it shut and he heaved a sigh. “Irrelevant.”

“If it’s irrelevant then why complain. I’m not interfering, am I?”

There was a pause before Sherlock answered. “No.”

“Then I don’t see the probably. If I want to look at something beautiful, I’ll damn well look all I please.”

Sherlock’s eyes popped open and he stared at John in blatant astonishment for a moment before he rose from his seat and walked away. John sighed and tossed back the rest of his tea. He looked at Sherlock’s still full cup and rolled his eyes before forcing the overly dressed tea down his throat as well. With a grimace and a small grunt he lifted himself from the chair and took off in the direction Sherlock had gone. He kept a distance between them. Obviously Sherlock wanted to be alone, but that didn’t mean John would allow him to wander too far. Their connection was strong and John could feel Sherlock’s life pulse through the invisible strings that bound them. 

A shudder in the pulse had his head snapping in the direction he knew Sherlock to be. That was unusual. Something was amiss. He followed the pull, gaining ground as another shudder rang through. _Sherlock_ , he thought, _please be okay_.

As he closed in on the location, John took in a ragged breath. Sherlock’s life pulse had slowed. He was either unconscious or on his last breath and John knew which he preferred. He moved slow and soft, keeping to the shadows as he neared the dilapidated cottage on the outskirts of the town. He peered through a crack in the boards covering the window and there sat Sherlock, head lolled to the side and hands bound behind his back. There were ropes around his torso binding him to an uncomfortable looking rusted metal chair; ropes around his shins and ankles as well. This could not be good.


	4. Chapter 4

“You should have left it alone, Mr. Holmes,” the voice belonged to an older man. In his late eighties if John had to make a guess. Sherlock groaned, his head shifting from side-to-side as the man blathered on. “There was no reason any form of investigation should have been underway.”

“You’re an idiot if you thought they wouldn’t investigate the sudden appearance of over forty bodies of children, Mr. Helmsgrove,” Sherlock mumbled and John’s breath caught in his throat. He moved as silently as he could to get a better view of the man that stood in the shadows before Sherlock. “And if you think you’ll get away with kidnapping me, you’ve got another thing coming. John would never let you get away with it.”

The old man laughed, stopping only when the laughter led to a fit of coughs. “He doesn’t have a clue where you are, Mr. Holmes, and it’ll be a while yet before he even realizes you’ve gone missing. You were alone, I watched you walk away from him,” John cursed under his breath as he realized Sherlock wasn’t trying to get time alone but trying to lure this man out, “and waited until you were far enough away to approach. By the time he realizes something’s wrong, you’ll be just another body for them to dig up. Frederick.” He yelled the name and John could hear heavy footsteps from further back in the cottage. They moved slowly, as if the person were trying to build suspense. When the man finally appeared, it became obvious he was related to Mr. Helmsgrove, likely his son.

Sherlock’s breathy laughter brought John’s attention back to him. “The son and grandson of one of the men responsible for the death of over fifty boys while Robert C. Walters School for Boys was open. This is brilliant. I had wondered how you had intended to kill me. How old are you?” he turned to the younger one. “Fifty-two? Fifty-three?”

Frederick snorted, but didn’t reply. He looked to his father, one brow raised in question. Mr. Helmsgrove nodded and the man stepped forwarded, revealing the large hunting knife he’d hidden away in his clothes. The younger Helmsgrove raised the knife menacingly, angling it so when he brought it down it would slice through Sherlock’s clothing, but not pierce his skin too deeply. 

John cursed under his breath and let go of the constant hold he had on his powers. Sherlock’s head jerked around towards the door just as John stepped through, his blue and fierce red eyes glowing in the dim light. Sherlock smiled as the Helmsgrove men turned towards the door, eyes widened in horror.

“Damnation,” the elder Helmsgrove choked out, his hand moving to cover his chest where his heart resided. He stared at the demon, trying to force his mind to wrap around what he was seeing. A blue demon in a jumper, leather jacket and jeans with well-worn combat boots adorning his feet.

The younger Helmsgrove was a bit quicker to the draw, his mouth opening to recite religious text, but John wasn’t having it. These men had taken his Sherlock, had attempted to harm his Sherlock. The fingers of his left hand twitched and the younger Helmsgrove was cut off, his hands flying to his throat, scrabbling at an unseen force cutting off his ability to intake oxygen. The fingers of his right hand twisted and the elder Helmsgrove flew across the room, his back hitting the far wall with a dull thud. A moment later, his son joined him, the fingers of their outstretched hands barely brushing.

John descended upon them with all the anger of a demon who’s life had been threatened, and in a sense, his had been. Sherlock was his life and the moment these men thought they’d get away with laying a pinky on a hair on Sherlock’s head, they’d called upon themselves the wrath of Hades’ third born.

“John,” Sherlock yelled with a sense of urgency. He turned his head so he could keep an eye on the two men but still give Sherlock his attention. “They’re not worth it. Just untie me and we can go.”

John shook his head, his attention going back to the two men. He brought his right hand up, his fingers twisted at an uncomfortable looking angle, his head tilted to the left a bit as he considered what to do to them first. He had just decided when Sherlock shouted his name again.

“Release me, John. That’s an order.”

John stared at him a moment. Sherlock never ordered him to do anything, it was part of their understanding. John would do anything for Sherlock, he need only ask. That Sherlock was ordering him to stop snapped John out of his rage-fueled desire to defend. He dropped his hands and turned his full attention to Sherlock, twisting his finger and untying the rope that bound him. Sherlock pulled his hands back to his front and rubbed at his wrists, his head turning to the two men that now lay in a heap on the floor.

“I did try to warn you. John will always come for me.”

John nodded as he pulled Sherlock to his feet, checking the taller man over for any further injury. When he found nothing else out of place on his detective, he turned towards the men, letting his fury show in his eyes. Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder, centering him once more, before tugging him back towards the door.

“Come, John. I need to speak with Detective Lassiter. I’ve solved the case.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6/17/2014: I am currently working on a rewrite for this chapter. I'm sorry it's been so long since I've updated, but life got away with me. Hopefully this rewrite won't take too long and I can get it and the next chapter up ASAP.

“So,” Lestrade said as Sherlock paused to take in a deep breath. The man had a habit of saying everything without taking consideration for his bodies need for oxygen. “Where are they now? These Helmsgrave men.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Helmsgrove. Really, how could anyone have expected you lot to solve this if you can’t even get the name of one of the culprits correct?”

John placed a halting hand on Sherlock’s forearm in warning. Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and nodded so subtly only John would have caught it.

“I would check their home. If not there, the train station. Well respected family having their ‘dirty laundry’ aired like this would be rather mortifying, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Lestrade conceded.

“I’ll have Hope and Pierson look into it,” Lassiter commented as she turned away from the small group, her mobile out and angled towards her ear.

“I’ll send Donovan and Philips to the train station. Have we got a picture or something for identification?”

Lassiter turned and held up a finger at Lestrade as she continued to speak into the phone. When she’d finally hung up, she gave her full attention to the three men standing before her. “Franklin is sending over pictures. Simons can print them from the tactical van.”

Lestrade nodded once and looked to Sherlock and John for a moment before turning to follow Lassiter. Sherlock turned to John once they were alone again. John stared at the toes of his boots, a fiery rage still burning. If he’d had his way, those men wouldn’t be able to attempt to flee. They wouldn’t be breathing. 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was low, his hand coming up to rest on John’s shoulder. “Let it go. Let’s go back to the room, yeah?”

John nodded once, let out a huff that was part amusement at this change in Sherlock’s behavior and part annoyance with the entire situation in general. John followed three steps behind Sherlock the entire five block walk to the B & B they were staying at. As Sherlock entered without an ounce of hesitation, John remained outside, his eyes moving up and down the street, his senses more open than he’d allowed them to be when he had been out with Sherlock the previous evening. He took a peak into the mind of several people that were out and about that morning, picking up on shopping lists, work that needed to be done, and the occasional inappropriate thought about a shops cashier or barista. He focused a bit more and picked up on Sherlock who stood inside the B & B watching him through the window.

_What are you doing? Quit being ridiculous. Get in here now._

John huffed out a small laugh. Sherlock’s thoughts were as bossy as what he let out that impossible mouth of his and he wasn’t even aware of this particular talent John possessed. John turned back towards the B & B, his eyes resting on Sherlock through the window. He let the smile show on his face, let Sherlock see how truly happy he was to be there, with him. And he let Sherlock know, really let him know, just how deep his devotion went.

 _I’ll always protect you_ , he projected into Sherlock’s mind and he could see the subtle widening of those achingly beautiful eyes.

There was a tentative _John_ projected back and John’s smile widened as he turned to enter the building. He passed by the sitting room Sherlock had been standing in and went up the narrow staircase to the third floor. He ignored the first three doors he passed and pulled the key from his pocket to unlike room 3-5. As he twisted the knob, he felt Sherlock’s presence loom close behind him, felt his long, elegant fingers dig into his hip as Sherlock wrapped his arm around him. He pulled them both into the room and Sherlock elbowed the door closed as he dipped his head and breathed in John’s scent: vanilla with a hint of gunpowder and just a bit of sulphur. 

_John_ , his name echoed in his head as Sherlock placed a whisper-kiss against his nape before he withdrew. John turned to Sherlock, his hands moving to cup the taller man’s face before he’d registered the movement. He tugged down gently as he went to the tips of his toes, brushing his lips against Sherlock’s in a mimicry of the kiss Sherlock had just bestowed upon his person. They stood like that for several moments before Sherlock pushed in further, pressing his lips more firmly against John’s.

A phone pinging broke the moment and they both stepped back, breathing harshly. Sherlock fished his phone from his pocket and opened the text. “Lestrade needs our statements.” John nodded and followed him, always following him.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the delay in upload for this part of my demon!John series. As quick as the first couple chapters came to me, this next one is running me ragged. It doesn't sound right and I'm having trouble getting half my ideas down for it. I'll get it up as soon as I can, but I can't even set a tentative date for it right now. Sorry.


End file.
